


la Plaie

by SuleikasGhosts13



Category: Fright Night (2011)
Genre: Blood Drinking, Body Horror, Creepy Jerry Dandrige, Dhampirs, Multi, Original Character(s), Parent-Child Relationship, Past Character Death, Past Relationship(s), Potions, Single Parent AU, Time Skips, Vampire Bites, Vampire Family, Witchcraft, reimagined characters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:28:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27089389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuleikasGhosts13/pseuds/SuleikasGhosts13
Summary: Charley has a lot to learn about his heritage...(The single dad fic nobody asked for.)
Kudos: 2





	la Plaie

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer:
> 
> This story deals with folkloric witchcraft, NOT religious witchcraft.
> 
> Think "The VVitch." Or "Hansel and Gretel: Witch Hunters."
> 
> Some of the lore was inspired by the canon of the original Fright Night comics, but does not strictly follow it.
> 
> Some characters from the sequel/comics, too. But reimagined as if they were part of the remake.

"You're Daniel," a woman's voice hissed in his ear. "Daniel of the West Winds."

"Who's looking?" J.D., or _Daniel_ as he was more popularly known by his supernatural peers, continued staring into his glass of whiskey.

With the low tumble of the bar, he almost didn't catch her next words, " _La legione della notte infinita._ There's a job for you."

"Sorry," the muscular biker groused, "I don't work with vampires anymore."

"It's Jerry," suddenly he was gripped hard on his upper forearm. "You owehim a life debt."

J.D. glared over his shoulder, right into the pupilless eyes of a dark-skinned vamp. "Really wish you guys would stop dangling that over my head."

J.D. could hear arguing all the way in the foyer. He was flanked by what he assumed were the snacker's children, judging by the informal way they referred to him.

Amihan lead him to the back parlor, explaining his condition in hushed tones. "Jerry went to Las Vegas to establish a new branch in the family. When we didn't hear from him, we sent a party to investigate. They found his base raided and the fledglings either destroyed or reverted back to their mortal selves.

"Hunters," she grimaced. "They must've gotten ahold of a stake blessed by St. Michael."

"He's dead, then," said J.D. quietly. There was certainly no love lost between them, but Jeremiah Dandridge had been a constant presence since his days as a amateur conjurer.

"Not quite," the Filipina asserted, tucking a hair behind her ear. "We've gathered their ashes. We've discovered a resurrection ritual we need you to perform."

"Is it dangerous?" He readjusted the bag on his shoulder.

Amihan swung open a heavy door and beckoned him inside. She dropped her fangs threateningly.

"Only if you mess up."

An hour past sunset, and J.D. could hear Jeremiah's labored breathing in the next room. The aging witch hunched over in his chair, face hidden behind his palms. An empty bottle cast aside on the floor.

The ancient ceremony proved successful, with the Legion encouraging him to continue. However, J.D. had insisted on at least a full day's rest between spells.

Yet it wasn't exhaustion that made him hesitate. No, he was haunted by the first words Jeremiah mumbled after his revival.

Plucking up the courage, J.D. stood on wobbly legs. He knocked on the chamber's panel door and walked in without waiting for an answer.

Naked, Jeremiah was sprawled on a chaise lounge, an arm draped over his eyes. His chest rose and fell with each wheeze.

A prisoner slumped against a nearby wall. Her body had been drained of blood. By the look of things, she wouldn't be turning, either.

"Danny," the bloodsucking bastard gasped, drawing his attention away from the dead girl. A mouth full of fangs greeted him, "Hey guy."

J.D. scowled; he hated being called that. It reminded him how naive he was, trusting this immortal parasite.

Hastily, he schooled his features and offered a tattooed wrist. "Still thirsty?"

The vampire wasn't lucid enough to be suspicious. He cracked a wide grin, "You always know how to cheer me up."

As those inhuman choppers pierced his skin, J.D. took sadistic delight in the way his charmed blood coated them.

The moment Jerry Dandridge drinks from Charley Brewster, he would be in for a _nasty_ surprise.

**A Year Later**

The first time Charley hears the name _Daniel of the West Winds,_ he's admiring a set of fancy pistols Peter recently acquired for his collection.

"He's the doucheist occultist this side of the Mississippi," the magician-turned-vampire-slayer said. "I mean, coming up with a name like that for yourself? You'd have to be."

They were a well-preserved .22 caliber Blue Jacket No. 1 model from some company called Hopkins and Allen. The revolvers came in a fancy mahogany case lined with French purple velvet.

"He rides up and down the West Coast bullying any unfortunate prick who crosses him. Currently? He's in jail for bar brawling."

"How'd you managed to get your hands on these?" Charley asked, inspecting the engraving of a sulfur cross on its handle.

"His Mary Jane needed rent money," Peter winked.

The second time, Peter was cackling over a Midori Sour, regaling how he was receiving threatening phone calls from prison.

"Does that pompous ass realize he's being monitored?" He sipped his drink, "Probably. And he probably doesn't care.

"Get this- he tells me, 'You can't comprehend the power of those items,'" he lowered his voice several octaves. "I says, 'Listen, you cheeky sod, I bought those antiques fair and square. I'll happily sell your toys back to you, but for six thousand and not a penny under!"

"And what did he say to that?" Amy leaned her head in her hand.

"'You'll live to regret this,' and he hangs up."

"Aren't you a _little_ worried?" Charley insisted. Messing around with self-proclaimed necromancers didn't sound very bright.

"Of what? That he'll hex me?" Peter shook his head. "Already he's in loads of trouble with the warden over the stunt he just pulled. I doubt he could hurt me."

The following week, Peter Vincent broke his foot on stage. He wasn't laughing then.

The third time occured several months later, as Charlie studied for his midterms. His cellphone suddenly starts ringing off the hook, and when he answers, it's Peter raving incoherently.

"Wait, wait, wait- hold up, what are you saying?" Charley interjected, rubbing his temple.

"I've been robbed!" Peter practically shouted, "Someone snuck into my flat during the show and stole half my relics!"

"Have you contacted the police?"

"They're on their way. And I've talked with security, they saw nothing," he huffed. "But I have a few suspects..."

**Three Years Later**

Charley doesn't think anymore of the West Winds dude or his missing pistols until after he graduates college. Wearing crimson cap and gowns, he was too busy taking selfies with his girlfriend Alex to notice the stranger behind them.

"Charley?"

He yelped, spinning around. There stood a beefy Viking-of-a-man, tattooed with intricate Gothic sleeves up his arms. He wore a heavily embroidered motorcycle vest, which he fingered nervously.

"Charley?" Again, the man asked hesitantly behind a full beard and shaggy mane.

Charley cocked an eyebrow. "Sorry, do I know you?"

Hurt flickered across his features. "It's y- well," he chuckled mirthlessly, "it's been such a _long_ time."

Charley checked their reflections in his phone's camera. Good, the newcomer appeared. He was human then.

"Are you one of Charley's relatives?" Alex asked, fingers entangled in his.

"Name's J.D.," he went to offer his hand.

"My _dad?!_ " Charley bristled. He hadn't seen hair or hide of his father since he was three. He'd given the deadbeat up for dead.

_Am I imaging it or did he just flinch?_

"Guessing you're still angry?"

"'Course I'm angry," he hissed. Jonathan D. Brewster went out for a six pack and never returned. His mother later discovered that he'd taken a bag full of clothes and enough money to trek through Canada.

"Would it help if I told you _why_ I left?" J.D. yanked a vial pendant from his neck, which was filled with-

"Are those _ashes?!_ " Alex's eyes went wide.

Wildly, he pointed a finger at his father and shouted, "Honestly?! You had twenty years to come clean. I'm NOT interested in what you have to say."

"Charley-"

"NO," he said firmly. "You don't get to swoop in and play hero after ruining our lives."

"Come on, Charley," Alex tugged on his arm. She was glaring daggers at J.D. "Let's go find your mom."

"Great idea," he agreed.

Defeated, J.D. stuffed his hands into his jean pockets and shuffled towards the exit. The large patch on the man's back piqued his son's curiosity. A yellow bird in flight, enclosed by the Old London font reading, "West Winds."

Jane was silent as her son described their encounter. When he paused, she pulled him into a bear hug and asked him if he was alright.

"I- I'll be okay," he admitted into her shoulder. "Just a little shaken."

"Johnny's got a lot of nerve," she seethed.

"I'll say," he concurred. "Heh, I'm not shocked that he's the type to be running with thieving warlocks."

Alex frowned, "Okay, I'm confused. How'd you figure that?"

"He's wearing _Daniel of the West Winds'_ colors."

Jane gave him a funny look.

"What?"

"Charley," she said slowly, "that's his middle name. _Daniel_."

"Kid, seriously?" Peter flopped down on his leather armchair. "Your _daddy dearest_ is Big Ol' Backstabbing Dan? That's rough."

"Mom didn't know, either," Charley shrugged. "She didn't even know he was into the occult. He didn't keep that stuff in the house."

"You said he left in what- the late 90s?" He hung a leg over the armrest. "Well, in her defense, Daniel didn't really make his presence known until _at least_ the early 2000's. Anything before that is a straight mystery."

"Half of me wants to ask him," the nursing grad confessed, running his hand through his curly hair.

"And the other half?"

"To hit him with a bat." He gulped down the rest of his cocktail, adding, "There's nothing he could say that would make me forgive him."

"Oh fuck that," barked Peter, slamming down the cover to his laptop. "I'm not going to force you to talk to your sperm donor just to get my junk back."

An associate had revealed that they'd found Peter's stolen crucifix nail being auctioned on ebay. Quickly, they'd been outbid.

He frowned, "Anyways, he's probably already sold it."

Charley argued, "I don't mind-"

"Well I do," Peter cut him off. "He's volatile; half the spiritualists I've met are afraid of him. And I'm not comfortable being the reason if you got hurt."

"You think he'd hurt me?" He raised an eyebrow, "He's never hit Mom or me before."

"I don't know, really," Peter groaned, leaning in his chair. "He could genuinely want to reconnect. Merely wouldn't trust the damn bastard with a ten-foot-pole."

"Can I help you?" Charley drawled, folding his arms in front.

The redhead was admiring a display case filled with cursed objects. She wore a fashionable black trench over a white sweater and slacks. Straightening up, she stuck her hand out and smiled.

"Claudia Hinnault, pleasure to meet you. I spoke with Mr. Vincent over the phone earlier. I have several items in my collection that I believe will intrigue him."

**Two Years Later**

"Got a hot date this weekend?" Devin asks, punching out at the clock. It's the change of shift at the hospital's emergency room. Well, technically they were suppose to leave a half an hour ago, but they were dealing with a heroin overdose.

Charley sighed, "No, Natalie had to reschedule our dinner. Family matters."

"Bummer. Isn't that the third time with this chick?"

He shrugged. He wasn't going to get into it with his colleague. How do you explain that your hot goth girlfriend is flyint across the country, tracking her missing and _possibly_ -turned-vampire parent?

Yeah, way too complicated.

"Good night, Becca," he yawned, zipping up his hoodie.

"'Night, Charley," she waves as he passes her counter.

The parking garage is eerie after dark, cast in an artificial blue hue. Charley used to get jumpy, tossing holy water at every shadow. Yet it had been a whole seven years since his encounter with vampire Jerry Dandridge; he felt comfortable enough to lower his guard.

Today, he had worked through a rough double shift that left him aching in all the wrong places. He couldn't give two shits about the dancing shadows in his peripheral. He only wanted to go home and crawl out of his sky-blue scrubs.

Charley was three feet away from his vehicle, keys in hand, when he suddenly heard a voice behind him that was frightfully familiar.

"Evening, Brewster. Been awhile."

"Ed."

Whereas Charley sported stubble and gained a little weight, "Evil" Ed hadn't aged a day over seventeen. Save for the black scleras, he still looked like the scrawny dorky kid Charley befriended eons ago.

"What's the matter, Chuckles?" Ed sneered, his fingers elongating into claws. "Surprise to see me?"

"Yeah, I am," he answered grievously. "I ran into your parents at the cemetery last weekend. They miss you."

The vampire glowered at him, "Fuck you, Charley."

"What are you doing here, Evil?" The overworked RN slipped his hand into his pocket, gripping the flask filled with blessed water. "Is it Jerry again?"

He barely had time to notice the presence at his back before a cloth was pressed against his nose and mouth. Someone grabbed his wrist and kicked at his knees. With their combined body weight, they forced Charley to the cement.

"Don't struggle, Charley, don't struggle," they huffed into his ear. _Doris?!_ The edges of his vision began to fade as he pried at the damped rag blocking his airways.

"It'll be over soon," she cried, "I promised."

A muffled screech came as his response.

Charley was thirsty.

"Water," he begged through parched lips. "Water..."

He kept his eyelids shut against the punishing LED bulbs. His face felt hot. He clutched his abdomen, the chloroform having made him nauseous.

"Here-"

_Thunk._

Charley peaked, but everything was so bright he quickly closed them again. His head felt foggy. "Where?"

"In front of you, dipshit," a high-pitched voice said impatiently.

He felt around with his hands until he found the plastic container. His mouth was so dry, even the refreshing liquid hurt going down.

The voice whined, "Hurry up."

He blinked several times as his eyes adjusted to the light. Taking the opportunity to inspect his surroundings, he found him in a cell with sterile white walls and zero furniture. Dread crept as he realized this was one of Jerry's rooms.

The figure in front of him was tapping his foot. Charley glanced and blanched.

"Mark?" _Oh God,_ "They got you, too?"

"Didn't even make it to my first legal drink," Mark scoffed. He wore his university sweater under his jacket. "You suck at killing vampires, by the way."

If Charley hadn't been so dehydrated, he would've chucked the water at Mark's head. Instead, he gulped it down a little too quickly, choking a bit.

"No dying on me now," the frat boy snickered. "Jerry would rip my head off if you kicked it _too early_."

Once he finished drinking, Mark snatched the bottle out of his hand and slammed the door.

"Fuck, oh fuck," Charley sobbed, drawing his legs in. Hungry, fatigued, and with only his wristwatch to keep him company; he had worked himself into a panic attack.

In the twelve hours since his capture, Jerry had yet to make an appearance. Instead, other vampires paid him a visit, all ones he'd thought he'd saved when he stabbed their master. Mrs. Fryer, the widow with the overbite. Stephen Tanner, the history teacher. Mark. It was as if Jerry was rubbing his failure in his face.

Charley worried about Amy. Last he'd spoken to his ex-girlfriend, she was training for the London marathon. She sounded so excited, too...

He needed to get out of here.

Once his hysterics petered out, he removed his hooded sweatshirt, rolling it into a ball to use as a makeshift pillow. Getting comfortable, he contemplated all the different ways he could escape the moment the next vamp opens his prison door.

"Hey guy."

Startled, Charley leapt away from the looming figure. Crap, when had he fallen asleep?

Leaning against the metal frame, Jerry was decked out in a police officer's uniform and entirely at ease. He smiled, large canines growing from his gums.

Backed against the wall, Charley searched for something- _anything -_ to defend himself with. Groaning, he wrapped the thick fabric of his hoodie around his neck.

"That's not going to help you," breathed Jerry. Eyes turning black, he palmed the huge bulge in his pants. " _Fuck,_ you smell amazing. All that blood and gore.

"You can't hide that with only soap and water, you know," the immortal whispered hungrily, advancing on him. "It's a scent that lingers. Where was it you worked again? The ICU?"

Charley shivered, refusing to respond.

"I've waited far too long-"

Abruptly, he charges, swinging a fist at the man's jaw. It connects, and the bloodsucker's forced back a bit. But then Jerry laughs a devilishly high laugh.

"Nice."

Charley tries to rush past him, a futile attempt. Swiftly, the nosferatu seized him around his midriff and drew him into a crushing embrace.

Jerry tugged the fabric away from his throat before sinking those fangs deep into flesh. Charley screamed, immediately pushing on his attacker's shoulders. He fought until his arms grew too heavy and fell to his flanks. Unable to hold his head, it lulled to one side.

As he slugged down warm, oxygen-rich blood, Jerry buried his claws in Charley's curls. He moaned in ecstasy.

Before his victim lost consciousness, he stopped, confused. Then he scowled. "It's poisoned."

"Huh?"

Jerry unceremoniously tossed him to the floor. Charley's hip hit the tile, making him gasp in pain. The vampire didn't pay him any mind.

"Dan? It's Jerry," the monster snarled at his cellphone. "We need you to come ASAP."

Shakily, Charley lifted himself up by his elbows. The door was open. If he could crawl over...

"One of our captives charmed their blood," Jerry moved to block the exit, kicking Charley's arm. "I drank it."

He paused. "Yeah, he's alive. No, I haven't turned him yet." Another pause. "Shit. Just hurry your ass over here."

_Click._

"Well, Charley, you've gotten a reprieve," Jerry barked. "The witch doctor needs you alert."

_Dan? Witch doctor?_ Charley managed to conceal the sheer relief he felt. _Dad._

Fast food never tasted so scrumptious. As they waited for Daniel to arrive, Ed had bought a heart-attack amount of cheeseburgers and fries, along with a jug of orange juice. Charley could feel his strength return as he wolfed it down.

"Don't give me lip, Donna! Go to the bar and lure in some sleazes. Tonight, we're gonna need the extra fluids." He could overhear Jerry shouting orders to the other snackers.

If the place was set up like his old house, then Jerry had retreated to his bedroom. Charley wondered if he actually slept there, or if it was kept only for appearances.

"So this witch doctor," he asks, "is he, like, your family primary or something?"

"Or something," Ed nodded. "He swings by anytime one of us gets in trouble."

"Is he the guy who brought you back?"

"Yeah," Ed rubbed his chin.

"What's he like?" Charley prayed he'd guess right. He could throttle his father _after_ his rescue.

"Built like Lobo," the teenager snickered, "but super thin-skinned. Nearly ripped my head off when I said his tattoos look like a kindergarter did them."

About an hour and a half after the call, Charley began hearing bloodcurdling shrieking outside his walls. It was agonized, desperate. He recognized that shrill.

He covered his ears.

With a creak of the door hinges, Doris reappeared and beckoned him. "He's ready for you, Charley. Are you able to stand?"

He tested his limbs. "I'm- I think I'll be okay." He took an unsteady step forward, being braced by Ed.

As an ER nurse, Charley was no stranger to traumatic injuries. Yet the scene which welcomed them churned his stomach. He gripped his escorts forearm to steady himself.

Jerry was restrained to his bed, writhing and rasping for breath. His face had transformed, pallid and grotesque. Cadaverous digits latched onto the silk sheets, twisting and ripping them. Large, purplish tumors blemished his skin while bluish buboes erupted from his neck, armpits, and groin. He was coated in a thick sheen of sweat, blood and pus.

Hovering over him was the familiar old man. Scalpel in hand, J.D. made quick work on the growths. He tossed them into a jumbo pail that sat on the floor beside the bed.

"Ah, there you are," J.D. glanced at him. "You're some kind of medic, right? Good, because I'm going to need you to dress his wounds."

Charley didn't budge.

"Get with the program, kid. You wanna live, don't you?" He added ardently, pointing to the gauze and antiseptics on the nightstand. "There's your supplies."

Grabbing an alcoholic prep, Charley asked brusquely, "No gloves?"

"No need," his father said baldly. He drained an abscess into the cup he held, dumping it into the bucket after.

Frowning, his son pressed, "Why not?"

J.D. exhaled. "This is _your blood_ his body is rejecting. For Jeremiah to fully recover from this hex, he needs the witch he drank from to treat his lesions and purify the avulsions."

"But I'm not a witch," Charley stressed. "I didn't do- _any_ of this."

"Well, somebody had to. A parent, perhaps?" He said it so pointedly that his child couldn't misunderstand. _I di_ _d. Now quit arguing._

Charley ripped open the package and started cleaning Jerry's cuts. The vampire winced at his touch.

"Don't think you're escaping, Charley," Jerry threatened, flailing in his cuffs. There was a feverish shine to his eyes.

Lowering his gaze, the nurse went to wrap Jerry's inner thigh when he noticed something. Voice overflowing with derision, he inquired, "You wear jewelry down there?"

"Stop gawking, cockstain," snapped Jerry.

Charley responded by thumbing the cut on the vampire's pelvis, forcing him to shout. The act was cruel and petty; but under the circumstances, he'd figured, excusable.

"I'LL KILL YOU!"

"You're already planning to," Charley roared in his nonhuman face. "What difference does it make?!"

"I'll make it painful," Jerry promised.

"I bet you will," he retorted.

"Enough," J.D. growled, "I can't concentrate with the two of you bickering!"

They spent the next several minutes wordlessly, interrupted only by Jerry's anguished yelps. The master vampire banged his head against the pillow, frustrated.

"Almost done," J.D. said, carving into a particularly malformed tumor. "Once you feed, you'll be able to remove the bandages."

"He doesn't have to worry about that," Charley carried on bitterly. "He's got several hostages to choose from."

"Just not the one I want," Jerry says darkly. His target rolled his eyes, pressing an alcohol pad to the gash in his forehead.

Jerry studied him. Charley felt an involuntary shiver run up his spine.

"They accused me of being a witch erst I was still human," he murmurs. "When Daniel brings you back to me, I'll show you _why_."

"That's the first time I ever heard Jeremiah talk about his past," J.D. remarked, shouldering his heavy pack as they exited the rear door.

His son didn't answer, concentrating on the black pickup-truck in the driveway. He tried not to breath in the stench of the bucket gripped in his arms.

Charley buckled in, setting the pail down at his feet. As J.D. climbed in the driver's seat, he whispered, "I'll explain everything once we're on the road. Don't panic."

_"Don't panic?!"_ Charley repeated incredulously. "Do you even hear yourself?!"

"I have a plan."

His father didn't elaborate further until they were well on their way. "There's a ritual," he continued slowly. "I'm going to conjure up a being that will guarantee the safety of you and your loved ones. We just need to get to my place first."

"Were you serious about me purifying this sludge?" Charley motioned to the foul-smelling jug. "Or was that a lie to get me out of the house?"

"They're ingredients, yes," his father replied. "Luckily for us, Jeremiah doesn't realize what it's for."

"Why were you helping vampires, Dad?" Charley demanded as they passed the police station. "What's your stake in this?"

He paused, then- "I _owe_ Jeremiah. I was young and naive, and crossed the wrong supernatural. He saved my life. True, I had to go on the run soon after..."

"Hold up." Wildly, he pointed a finger at Daniel and accused, "Are you telling me the reason you bailed on us is because of vampires?!"

"Werewolves," he corrected, smiling sadly. 


End file.
